


Pawns to Checkmate

by Brate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Brothers, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and John are kidnapped together. Woe to the kidnappers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pawns to Checkmate

John pushed back against the hands forcing him into the room. Though it didn't help his cause, just made it more obvious he wasn't the one in control of the situation. A hard shove staggered him, throwing him off balance and almost into Mycroft's lap. John tried to contain his surprise at seeing the older Holmes brother, but wasn't sure he succeeded. 

Mycroft was seated in a chair, hands cuffed behind him. At John's questioning look, he shook his head ever so slightly. John remained silent, if they weren't already aware, he refused to let their captors know they were acquainted.

Ruthlessly, John was thrust into his own chair opposite Mycroft, and his wrists were quickly cinched tight behind him and cuffed. A final slap was delivered to his head as the men walked out, leaving the two captives alone. 

Waiting until he was certain they had gone, and letting the ache in his skull subside, John finally turned and asked, "What happened? How did you get here?"

Mycroft curled a lip. "I miscalculated. Unfortunately, my driver suffered for it."

"Sorry—"

"I assume you and Sherlock stumbled upon the cunning plan of Daniel Wendell, and that is why you're here."

John ducked his head. "Um, yeah, but—" 

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft once again cut John off. "I abhor restraints. And the metal is chafing my wrists."

"Then why don't you do something about it," John said sardonically, eyeing the room for hidden cameras and finding none.

"That's a marvelous idea," Mycroft easily agreed. His arms shuffled awkwardly, then Mycroft stood, cuffs dropping from his wrists and bouncing on the floor. He quickly released John and grabbed his umbrella from the desk. "Shall we?" 

One day John would stop being gobsmacked by the astonishing abilities of the Holmes brothers, but he didn't see that day coming soon. "If you could do that at any time, why did you stick around?"

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. "They let it slip that they'd be bringing back someone else. I thought it best, at least until I knew which unfortunate would be brought into their plans." Left unsaid was if Mycroft had escaped, John would've probably been the one to suffer the consequences.

"I counted five armed men apart from Wendell," Mycroft continued. "I believe the southerly sweep has the best odds for survival."

John would take his word for it. Wendell's men had brought him into the abandoned office building through a maze of rooms and hallways, and his normally good sense of direction had failed him after he'd been shoved into a wall around the ninth turn—he had no idea how to find his way out again.

Using his lock pick, Mycroft undid the lock and opened the door, cautiously peering out, and then moved forward without sound. Surprisingly naturally, the two moved as a unit down the corridor, John providing rear guard, listening for danger or discovery, Mycroft moving quite stealthily for a non-military man. 

At a corner, Mycroft signaled _stop,_ and then raised his umbrella. A swift motion, and the man rounding the corner fell, unconscious, at their feet. Bending down, Mycroft rifled through the man's jacket, handing a gun up to John. "I think you should hold this," Mycroft said, "as you are a better shot than I."

John accepted the handgun, contemplating just how much Mycroft knew of the incident with the cabbie. Probably everything, knowing him. John checked the clip and nodded. "Good to go," he said. 

"Splendid."

John wondered if Mycroft was having as much fun as he appeared to be. Perhaps the brothers weren't so different after all. Not that he would ever say it aloud. He might not be as smart as Sherlock or Mycroft, but he was not a complete idiot.

Another corner, and this time there were two men. Stealthily, they took one apiece, Mycroft with his umbrella, while John used the gun as a blunt object to knock the man out. No point advertising their escape. Besides, as much as he enjoyed a good adventure, John would rather not kill anyone if he could help it.

His caution didn't matter in the end. After taking out another of Wendell's henchmen, there was a loud commotion back from where they'd come. 

"It appears our departure has been discovered," Mycroft commented.

"We should hurry," John replied, wincing as he said it because it was _obvious_. 

But Mycroft merely nodded and walked a bit faster. They tried to avoid any remaining men instead of instigating a confrontation—trading safety for speed, backtracking when necessary, ducking into empty rooms and once, memorably, cramming tightly together inside a caretaker's closet. They'd reached the first level, one last room to cross in order to reach what Mycroft assured him was a viable exit. 

There came a deep, angry voice. "Stop right there, or I'll shoot you in the kneecaps."

John slid his pistol down and turned to see Wendell and one of his men twenty feet away, guns pointed at them.

Wendell stood just within a side door. He smirked. "I had just planned to hold you until I got my hands on Sherlock Holmes. But now you've annoyed me and forced me to waste my valuable time." His smile turned deadly. "I think I'll show him your corpses before I have my man here gouge his eyes out. See if that infamously indifferent façade won't crack just a little under the pressure." Wendell started to pull the trigger.

John reacted instantly. 

A gunshot echoed across the room, and Wendell went down. Shockingly, so did his man whom John had intended to target next—a knife already imbedded in his chest.

"Well," said Mycroft, twisting closed the pommel on his umbrella and straightening his jacket sleeve, "that was rather stupid of them." He marched forward and searched Wendell's pockets, revealing a mobile. "Just what I need." Mycroft quickly dialed a number, said, "Please retrieve me," hung up, and dropped the phone on Wendell's body. Looking up, he shot a double take at John, as if he'd forgotten he was there. 

John didn't buy it for a second.

"Dr Watson, brilliant handling of the situation, but I would suggest you wipe your prints from the firearm and place it on the ground to avoid any unseemly questions." He noticed Mycroft made no move to retrieve his knife from its new location.

Still, John listened to the sound advice. Meticulously, he rubbed his sleeve over the gun handle and barrel, before placing it on the ground next to the henchman's side. When he straightened, John noticed Mycroft was already out the door, so he followed. Mycroft stood about three meters from the entrance, his hawk-like gaze tracking the surrounding area before checking the time on his watch. 

John sidled up next to him and cleared his throat. "I, uh, want to thank you for sticking around and helping me—"

"Think nothing of it." Mycroft waved the gratitude aside. He quickly checked his watch again.

John frowned. Was Mycroft nervous? Couldn't be. He must simply be impatient for his men to come and clean up the mess. 

"Really, you were amazing in there," John pushed.

"Doctor, I assure you, it was no bother."

John stared—was Mycroft _blushing_? Oh, this was too good. John wanted to push further, but as he opened his mouth, two black vans pulled up to the building, and a group of suited men exited carrying weapons and cleaning supplies. With cursory acknowledgement of Mycroft, they swarmed the building. Seconds later, a sleek black car pulled up, the same type that John had ridden in once before, when he'd first met the elder Holmes.

Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, John wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Should he leave? Did he need to ask Mycroft for a ride home? He wasn't even certain what direction to start walking to find a cab. He was saved from having to make a decision by the calling of his name. 

"John!"

John spun to see Sherlock running toward him.

"You're all right," Sherlock said, though his eyes seemed to scour over John to ensure it was a statement rather than a question.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thanks to Mycroft."

"Really?" Sherlock's lip curled up in a sneer as he turned to face his brother.

"Yes. Your brother was bloody brilliant back there," John acknowledged. "He has a way with that umbrella." 

Sherlock looked taken aback.

Mycroft smiled serenely—one might say smugly. "Don't worry; everything's been taken care of. You and your doctor can return to your flat."

As John watched, Sherlock's face transformed. If it was anyone else, John would say the consulting detective was pouting. 

"I think I prefer it when you're lazy." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, but his gaze slid John's way, as if he was checking once again that his friend was unhurt. Begrudgingly he added, "I suppose I should thank you." 

"And if you did, I would say you're welcome." Mycroft's voice definitely held the satisfaction of cat and cream.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

John snorted and pulled on Sherlock's sleeve. "Right. Enough of this. You two might injure yourselves getting so sentimental. See you later, Mycroft!" He waved a hand over his shoulder and dragged Sherlock down the street, promising to reveal everything that had happened in graphic and painstaking detail.


End file.
